FRAN, YOU HAVE A NEW MESSAGE FROM FREDDY! HERE’S WHAT HE HAD TO SAY!
Hello Fran. Thank you for filling me in. Your friends sound mental. I particularly like the sound of the one who lives in your shed – she sounds as fierce as your cat. Who is obviously a right little ballsack. Why did you brush off your job like that? I’ve got a friend who works in News so I KNOW that you’ve got a really posh job. You should be showing off. Er, in answer to your question: ‘Love Over Gold’. Have you heard the intro to ‘Telegraph Road’? How’s your weekend been anyway? Did you date any munters? How’d you feel about going on a date with me? I’m abroad for another two weeks; you’ve got plenty of time to prepare yourself. It will be the best night of your life, of course. Freddy X Dave took one look at my outfit – a shoulder-padded power dress from Jaeger in royal blue – and fell about laughing, stopping only for a coughing fit. ‘This is the best outfit I’ve ever seen, Fannybaws,’ he said reverentially. In spite of myself, I smiled. ‘You’re jealous. You’re secretly wishing that Freya didn’t wear Fairtrade linens and instead dressed like this.’ He merely stared at my ensemble, shaking his head in wonder. ‘How is Freya by the way? I haven’t seen her in … well, in ages.’ Dave fixed me with a Stern Look. ‘Stop evading the question,’ he said. ‘Tell me what’s going on with your mum.’ We were sitting in the staffroom at lunchtime, where I had taken to hiding when I wasn’t required at my desk. It was now Wednesday and everyone at ITN had been pretending I was invisible since Monday. After all, what could one say to a news producer whose crotch had been a noteworthy feature of Sunday’s news? Alex – the scumbag – had moved to a bank of desks round the corner from the main newsroom floor and was avoiding me like the plague. This worked well for me: I was still overwhelmed with rage and did not need a homicide on my record too. Hugh had merely sent me an email on Monday saying that in light of my sudden infamy he would prefer me to base myself in the office for the foreseeable future and not to make or receive any telephone calls. I had less status than Jacinta, the eighteen-year-old work-experience girl, but none of the popularity or sex appeal. And because I’d had to stay at Mum’s since Sunday night I’d had to spend the week wearing polyester power outfits from her wardrobe. ‘Mum’s pretty shit,’ I replied. ‘And I’m running out of ideas. Dad agreed that I should take her to AA but she refused. I tried to talk to her about it last night and she just started crying and saying she couldn’t believe I’d start shit-stirring when she was going through hell. If I don’t go and buy her booze she literally goes mental, Dave. I can’t take much more.’ Dave got a bag of Krispy Kremes out of his satchel and offered it to me. ‘Oh, Fannybaws, that’s rough,’ he said. ‘Thanks.’ I took a Kreme-filled monster. ‘It breaks my heart, Dave. She’s only OK when she’s got a drink in her hand.’ Dave nodded reflectively. ‘Of course.’ ‘Do you know an alcoholic then? You sounded like you knew what you were on about the other day.’ ‘Aye. My cousin Rosa.’ ‘What happened?’ ‘She died.’ I sat back. ‘Jesus. I’m so sorry.’ He shook his head. ‘No, you’re OK. Her sister, Betty, went to AA. She’s in fuckin’ great shape, these days.’ ‘Really?’ ‘Aye. I think they’re the only folks who can help.’ ‘I know.’ I sighed, feeling suddenly exhausted. ‘But I can’t drag her there.’ ‘No. But I reckon she’ll be ready soon, Fannybaws,’ he said reflectively. I helped myself to another doughnut and slumped over the table to scoff it. Dave watched me for a while with a mixture of pity and concern. ‘Fran, you need some time off. Go home, get some kip and some normal clothes. You look like Thatcher. You can’t help your mum when you’re this shagged out.’ I finished the second doughnut in three bites. ‘Yeah. I’ll go home tonight maybe. I just don’t want to leave her on her own.’ I reached for the bag again and Dave raised an eyebrow. ‘Really? Three doughnuts?’ ‘Oh, piss off.’ I took the third, hurt. Why did Dave have such a remarkable ability to point out my most embarrassing behaviour? ‘So. Did you decide what to do about Charlie?’ he asked, after a pause. ‘Er, yes. I went on a date and shagged him.’ Dave sat back and whistled. ‘Really? I hope you were careful, Franny …’ ‘Yes yes yes, I was. And you know what? It was great sex. I’m glad I did it.’ I was pretty sure I believed myself. Dave looked slightly ill. ‘Erugh. Now, Fannybaws, listen. I was at a party on Saturday and I met someone who knows him. Told me Charlie’s got a massive coke problem. Apparently he stole some jewellery from her house last year.’ I scowled at Dave over the Krispy Kremes bag, wishing that, just for once, my friends had something nice to say about my love life. ‘Really? Well, he didn’t steal from me. He just gave me a jolly good bang. I needed it, Dave. I’m in hell over Michael. I needed to know I’m not …’ I felt miserable tears swelling fatly in my eyes. ‘I needed to know I’m not completely disgusting to men any more.’ Dave began to roll a cigarette. ‘Don’t be a pillock. You’ve got loads of men lined up on the Internet wanting a date with you – you’re in demand, girl!’ ‘Oh, who cares?’ I cried, letting out an almighty sob. Dave put his cigarette down to pat my hand awkwardly. ‘The only person I want is Michael. He’s sent me three messages now. I miss him. I need him. I can’t do this shit on my own. I’m going to text him back.’ It was true. I was done. I needed my boy. ‘But, Fran … he’s riding Nellie Daniels! You can’t want him back!’ ‘Of course I do. I still love him,’ I said quietly, tears falling off my nose and into the Krispy Kremes. Dave moved them and leaned forward to give me a proper hug. ‘Listen here, Fannybaws,’ he said, into my hair, ‘I think you should keep your distance. You don’t know what he’s up to and you’ve got another month till the ninety days are up. Why don’t you have it out with him then? When you know more about him and Nellie?’ I wiped my eyes on Dave’s sleeve. ‘I’m just so tired, Dave. I’m tired of coping with Mum, I’m tired of having to do this fucking stupid Internet dating, I’m tired of trying to do this job, I’m tired of restraining myself from punching Alex and, most of all, I’m tired of not being able to just crawl into bed with Michael for a cuddle.’ Dave sat back. ‘You’re doing OK,’ he said quietly. ‘You really are. Don’t give up. It’s only another month. Think how much saner you’ll be then, eh? No offence, love, but I’m not sure I’d take you back in this state.’ He smiled cheekily but I failed to see the comedy. I put my face in my sugary hands and howled. ‘Frances.’ We both jumped. Nikki, Hugh’s PA, was standing in the doorway with an asymmetric fringe and Bad Tidings written across her face. ‘Hugh would like to see you in his office, please.’ I brushed doughnut crumbs off my polyester lap. ‘About … ?’ ‘Not sure. But he wants you now.’ I got up to go but Dave jumped up, blocking my path. ‘Er, Fannybaws, you, er …’ He hovered awkwardly, staring at my face. ‘I’ve got mascara all over my face and I look like Dracula?’ ‘Aye. That one.’ ‘COME IN!’ Hugh screamed, a few moments later. That didn’t sound too promising. ‘Shut the door,’ he said, not looking up. I did so and sat down. I was beginning to feel rather afraid. Hugh picked up a tape box from his desk. He showed it to me. It was marked ‘New Life House (Chelsea) shoot: Isabelle Langley-Gardiner/Nellie Daniels, 8 February 2010’. My heart sank. ‘What the fuck is this, Fran?’ he asked, sitting back in his chair. Slumped in the back of a taxi thirty minutes later, I decided that the worst of it was not that Hugh had given me a formal written warning for going on a made-up shoot at a Chelsea mums’ club, not that he had said my appearance in the Mirror was one of the greatest embarrassments of his career, but that he had told me, really quite sadly, that I had turned out to be an enormous disappointment after such a brilliant start. That part was unbearable. Feeling myself spiralling into a silent panic, I did my best to remember some of Stefania’s meditation mantras. But nothing came, only a voice telling me that I was a complete fool and deserved all of this. I had had the best job in the world but I’d chosen to spend my work time stalking Nellie Daniels using ITN’s computers, cameras and time. ‘Every
time I walk past your fucking computer you’re doing your fucking Facespace,’ Hugh had yelled. ‘You’re never fucking working. What the fuck happened to you during your three weeks off sick? Why was Fran replaced by a fucking moron who looks like something from the Young fucking Conservatives one minute and some reject from Greenham fucking Common the next? I don’t fucking like it. I swear I even smelt booze on your breath yesterday. And, my God, if that happens again you’re out of here quicker than I can say “fuck”.’ I’d sat trying to control the tears forming in my eyes and nodding blankly. All of the years I’d worked for fifteen hours a day, all of the times I’d sat up until four in the morning watching the news wires, all of the times I’d blown out my social life in favour of work, and now I’d cocked it up. ‘But I’m giving you one last chance. One last FUCKING chance,’ he said. ‘Nick Bennett is big news right now. And I need you to get him for us. Two-hour interview, exclusive to us, location of our choosing, ready for Friday night’s bulletin. Do I have a deal?’ ‘Hugh,’ I began. My voice was wobbly. ‘Hugh, I’m not sure I …’ I struggled. Hugh made things simple for me by slamming his fist on the table. ‘The deal is non-negotiable, Frances. You get us Nick in the next forty-eight hours and you keep your job. You fail, you will no longer be working at ITN. And this isn’t blackmail. I’ve had IT compile a review of your recent Internet use. There’s enough in it to have you fired fifty fucking times over. Understood?’ I nodded stupidly, appalled. ‘One last thing. Alex will run this project once you’ve secured access to Nick. Professionally he’s worth twenty of you at the moment. So don’t fucking well take this out on him, OK? I’m watching you, Fran. Oh, you can be fucking well sure of that. I’m watching. Now fuck off home, sort yourself out and get me Nick Bennett. You come back tomorrow ready to do your fucking job. No more chances. Goodbye.’ Why did Alex hate me so much? There was no way anyone other than him could have given the tape to Hugh. I shivered. Was it not bad enough that he’d sold Mum to the press and bedded my best friend? As I let myself into my flat, numb with shock and shame and clutching Dave’s bag of Krispy Kremes, I encountered Duke Ellington, fresh from a fight with a cat far bigger than him. His left ear was torn and he was limping slightly. ‘Oh, my God … Duke Ellington, are you OK?’ I asked him. He miaowed dismissively and ambushed my ankle, tearing Mum’s shiny tan tights. Duke Ellington would not lie down and die amid a pile of Krispy Kremes, I thought grimly, as I removed him from my leg. He would fight on. And if that little grey monster could deal with anything that was sent his way, so could I. I took a deep breath, threw the doughnuts into the bin, sat down at my kitchen table and dialled. ‘Frances. Why in the name of God are you calling me?’ Nick hissed furtively. ‘THIS HAS GOT TO STOP. I could be being tapped!’ I swallowed. ‘It’s a work call. They want a two-hour with you for Friday’s bulletin. I think you should do it.’ He said nothing for a few seconds. ‘They don’t want to screw you, Nick. They just want to hear the truth.’ ‘I’ll speak to the press office. But, yes, I think I should. I deserve the chance to remind the public of my otherwise unblemished record. But for obvious reasons you cannot be anywhere near the filming location.’ ‘Very well.’ ‘Right. Well, Fran, thanks for calling and all the best for your career. And, um, I hope everything goes OK with Eve.’ ‘That’s it? You “hope everything goes OK”? And now you just waltz off out of her life after seventeen years? Shame on you, Nick,’ I cried. But he’d ended the call. Poor, poor Mum. It was unimaginable. Seventeen years and then – boom. Nothing. A wall of silence. I sighed, knowing I would have to go back to her house tonight. The mere prospect of an evening in her company made me feel despairing. You need Michael. You cannot do this alone, my head told me. I looked at my phone. ‘I’ll just let Hugh know about Nick,’ I said to Duke Ellington. ‘And maybe have a bath. And then it’s back into Stefania’s care for you, young man. I’m needed elsewhere.’ I reawakened my laptop, which had been hibernating since Mum’s SOS message on Sunday. As the screen came to life, I wondered vaguely if I might have heard from Freddy again, but instead I found the email I’d had from Dad on Saturday afternoon. I read it again. How true it had been: my certainty that Nick was about to dump Mum, and Dad’s recommendation that she go to AA. Suddenly I felt uncomfortable. I didn’t know why, but something wasn’t right. My phone beeped. Charlie! I’d been worrying that he’d seen the fanoir de Franoir in the Mirror on Sunday. Wednesday, after all, was quite late in the day to be getting in touch after a Saturday of passion. Hey. Me want more Fran. She hot. Next weekend? I smiled stupidly, remembering how disgracefully attractive he’d been as he’d sat in this very seat on Saturday night while I’d been running round my room getting ready. I think I could fit you in I stopped. Oh, dear God. … as he’d sat here in this very seat on Saturday night. Right in front of my computer. With this email wide open, facing him. Charlie the alleged coke-head who thought nothing of stealing from his friends for the next few grams. I stared at his text message again, panic balling in my chest. Panic that turned very quickly into anger. He had come here, nicked a story to sell for some fucking coke, then had sex with me – and had the cheek to ask me on a second date? Oh, my God, Mum, I’m so sorry. My mind was racing. I deleted the text I’d started to Charlie. Instead I typed: Fuck you. I cannot believe what you did. But then I felt even more afraid. I couldn’t send this! He could use it as proof if Nick denied the story. Don’t reply, I told myself frenziedly. Go to bed. Lie low. No, go to Mum’s. No, kill yourself. No, kill Charlie. No, kill … ARRGH. My phone started ringing. It was Nick. ‘Hello?’ I shouted wildly, terrified that he was going to pull out of the interview, then Hugh would sack me and I’d end up being a bag lady for the rest of my life. ‘Fran, er, I have a situation,’ he said quietly. ‘PLEASE DO THE INTERVIEW. PLEASE! MY LIFE DEPENDS ON IT!’ ‘Yes, yes, it’s all being organized now. Fran, I need you to come and get your mother. She is sitting on my driveway in a red-and-white deckchair with a bottle of champagne in her hand.’ I stared at Duke Ellington. ‘What?’ ‘I said, she’s sitting on my driveway drinking champagne. If you don’t come and get her, Fran, I’m going to have to call the police. I cannot have a photographer see this. Or Laura. I need her gone within fifteen minutes.’ ‘Oh, Nick, I’m so sorry. Actually I’m not, it’s your bloody fault. But – but I can’t get there in fifteen minutes! Please! Don’t do this! She’s at the end of her tether …’ My voice was getting more and more hysterical. Nick sounded equally terrified. ‘Fifteen minutes, Fran,’ he said. ‘This is my life. My career. My family.’ He ended the call and I burst into tears again. ‘My life is DOWN THE TOILET,’ I yelled at Duke Ellington. My phone started ringing again. ‘Hello?’ I cried, gulping. ‘Fannybaws, I’ve got some serious news. Charlie Swift is even more of a cunt than we thought. It turns out he stole a whole load of money from –’ ‘I know he’s a cunt. It was him who sold Mum to the Mirror. I just found out.’ ‘So it’s over, then? Och, sorry, Fannybaws, I didn’t want to wreck –’ ‘It’s not important. Dave, Mum’s set up shop outside Nick’s house in a fucking deckchair and she’s drunk and Nick’s told me I’ve got fifteen minutes before he calls the police and I – Oh, God, Dave, I don’t know what to do.’ ‘I’ll be there in ten minutes if I put my foot down. I’m on the A24. There was a pile-up and I got diverted.’ ‘What? No, you can’t –’ ‘Shut it, Fannybaws. Get down to your mum’s as soon as you can. I’ll wait for you there.’ ‘Mum?’ I whispered. The room smelt of stale champagne and sadness. A bottle of Bollinger gleamed from her bedside table. In spite of everything, I smiled. Mum wasn’t wasting her time with Morrison’s cava, at least. Then I spotted an empty cognac bottle next to the bin and stopped smiling. ‘Frances.’ She sounded very sleepy. ‘I’m sorry. I …’ ‘It’s OK. Go to sleep. But we need to talk tomorrow, OK?’ Mum shuffled up in her bed and turned on her bedside lamp. I tried not to start: she looked terrible. Keep calm, Fran. I felt frightened and c
ompletely exposed. The one person in the world who was meant to be able to look after me was like a tiny helpless baby, propped up on her pillow looking desperately at me for help. ‘I … I had a moment of madness, Frances,’ she said eventually. I thought about Dave losing his cousin to this thing. I wasn’t prepared to let Mum go the same way. ‘No, Mum, it wasn’t madness,’ I said, sitting on her bed and taking her hand. ‘Mum, you need help. You have a real problem with drink. Can you see that?’ She dropped her eyes. ‘Mum. Look at me. I’m your daughter. I’m your little girl. I’m afraid. I’m afraid I’ll lose you if this carries on. You’re ill. Ill people need help.’ My voice was shaking but I held my ground. I meant it. There was a distinct feeling of last-chance saloon in this room and this time I wasn’t going to give in. Mum’s eyes had filled with tears. ‘I don’t want anyone’s help,’ she said hopelessly. I squeezed her hand, terrified that she would shut down and throw me out. ‘I know. But, Mum, this is a common problem. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s not like it was in Granny’s time. You can get help now without being judged.’ Mum nodded. ‘Dave … Dave told me about the AA group in Sutton,’ she said hesitantly. ‘But I just don’t think I can face it, Franny.’ I sat up straight. ‘Mum, you have to go to the meeting. Just try it. One meeting. For me, Mum. Please, please, please – just go.’ I squeezed her hand again. ‘Please, Mum. I can’t lose you.’ She sank back down in bed. ‘OK, Fran,’ she said, in a small voice. ‘I’ll try it. There’s a meeting tomorrow, Dave said. I’ll go.’ ‘I’ll take the day off work and go with you. How do I know you won’t get drunk and make an excuse?’ I said. Getting Mum to that meeting felt like the most important thing in my life right now. She tried to pull herself back up to hug me but slumped down, exhausted. ‘Trust me, Fran. I will go. I will go.’ I watched as waves of sleep washed over her and she began to drift away. My lip trembled. ‘Well done, Mum. I love you.’ ‘I’ll never be able to thank you enough,’ I said to Dave, who was texting someone, presumably Freya, in the lounge. He seemed ridiculously out of place among Mum’s formal three-piece suite with his army coat and scuffed trainers. ‘’S OK,’ he said, yawning. ‘I’ve had practice with this, remember. Betty told us she couldn’t start AA until she got to rock bottom. I reckon your mum’s there now.’ ‘Yeah, that’s pretty much what she just said,’ I replied, flopping down on the sofa next to him. ‘Seriously, Dave, what you did tonight was absolutely incredible. I’m more grateful than you’ll ever know. And finding out about the AA group – you’re amazing. I properly love you.’ ‘It’s fine,’ he said shortly. ‘I was only four miles away.’ ‘Was Nick a cunt?’ ‘Och, no more than normal. He was just shitting himself. Anyway, look, Fran, I’ve got to go, OK? It’s late.’ ‘Sorry, yes. Freya must be really pissed off.’ Dave grimaced. ‘’Bye.’ ‘Dave, wait! Let me show you out!’ ‘You’re fine. See you.’ ‘DAVE! Come back! Let me give you some wine! Or a hug! Or something!’ ‘It’s fine. I just need to get back,’ he called, as he strode off down the path to his van. He was clearly desperate to get away from us. You can hardly blame him, Fran, I thought, peering at my reflection in the mirror in the hallway. I looked like a strippergram who’d spent the night sleeping in a bin. I was still wearing Mum’s hideous dress; my tights were full of cat-shaped toothmarks and ladders; and my eyes were surrounded by smudges. A cup of tea later, overwhelmed by my day and at a loss as to what to do, I got my phone out and reread Michael’s messages. They had become a little bit like his old smelly sock that I’d hugged so voraciously when our separation had started in December. They were a nice place to go in my head. An escape from reality. A cup of mental hot chocolate. I just want you to know I am sorry. I miss you, his most recent message had said. Sunday, 1.37 p.m. I smiled mushily. I miss you too, I thought. More than you can possibly imagine. Maybe it really had gone wrong with Nellie. Maybe it had just been a fling and she’d got too keen too quickly. I opened my diary and drew a smiley face on 23 March: day ninety. There were twenty-seven days to go. Twenty-seven days until I could see my boy. I’d forgive his indiscretion with The Daniels. I’d do anything. Learn to cook. Take up exotic massage. Take up erotic massage. Anything. I just needed some stability in my life again. Chapter Twenty-nine
Greatest Love Story of All Time Page 17
